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Monday, December 17, 2012

The pen slips to the paper for the first post in this new blog, and
freezes, a millimeter above the parchment. A droplet of the deepest blue teasingly
clings to the sharpened tip of the swan’s wing quill.

Do I make it pithy? Make it
count?

The grandfather clock ticks
against me. Every resounding click reminds me of Father; a lasting remnant of
his impatient ‘tisk’ at my indecision.

The dry pristine paper below almost draws the blue ink downward, its desiccated
form sucking heavily on the moisture held so tantalizingly above.

But alas, the muscles holding the pen have no control, stationary as
ordered, anticipating the first words from the vast human consciousness,
hovering just a foot above.

Or comedic? I can do both. But
comedic would not be good to look back on. No one will read this first post,
but as the blog grows, people may look back to see earlier works. The first
blog post.

Despite the lack of instruction, the tip of the pen vibrates slightly,
the bead of ink shaking back and forth. Despite the human in the equation, the
liquid must obey scientific laws. Until the droplet has attained sufficient
mass to defeat the cloying grip of the molecules above, it cannot fall.

If the universe survives, this
blog may be part of a larger information matrix. If I write something stupid, or
crass, it would be there for eternity. Spelling mistakes and all.

The mind above scrambles for cogent thought like a chicken being chased
by a young inexperienced fox. Feathers flying, the bird screams at the top of
its voice, head raised high in alarm.

The pen descends the last fraction with the confidence of a master
classman.

But he has misjudged the trajectory, or the distance, or the approach…
or something.

The nib breaks on the paper, sending shards of swan across the white
surface. The dark blue liquid lands unfortunately; a small irregular blot of no
importance whatsoever.

My first blog post is ruined.

Perhaps blogging is not for me
after all.

The swan quill is set to one side, near the sharp knife. As the door
closes, the feather wiggles in the resultant breeze. The dark cobalt liquid in
the open inkwell evaporates slowly. The paper lies still on the desk. The
inkblot dries, adhering the paper slightly to the worn wood below.

The air in the musty room becomes still.

The only sound is the mechanical arm above the cog in the large
grandfather clock as it rasps over the worn brass tines.